


po-tay-to, po-tah-to

by thedeathchamber



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Friendship, Gen, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, M/M, Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently), Protectiveness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26162554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedeathchamber/pseuds/thedeathchamber
Summary: During a rare Blackwing experiment, Svlad rediscovers the world in a suburban neighbourhood, makes a friend(?), and kills a man.Or, an AU in which Dirk and Todd meet as children—briefly. But everything is still connected. Nothing is also connected.
Relationships: Dirk Gently & Scott Riggins, Todd Brotzman & Dirk Gently, Todd Brotzman/Dirk Gently
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beware canon-typical violence and nonsense. And Blackwing, hence the tags. 
> 
> * Priest isn't _physically_ in the story, but his _presence_ in it seemed relevant enough for a tag.  
> * At the time this fic takes place Dirk is still Svlad.

“Svlad, don’t get distracted. You need to focus.”

It’s difficult to focus when _everything_ around him is more interesting than the cards on the table. There is _so_ much colour around him, and imperfections: scratches on the pale wood of the kitchen table, a crack in the corner of the cream tile by the pale yellow fridge—things that don’t exist in Blackwing. The kitchen doesn’t even have a _door!_ It opens straight into a living room, with a low coffee table and a couch, and an assortment of orange cushions that Svlad had squeezed with delight while Riggins used the bathroom when they arrived. 

Bedrooms he’s familiar with: four walls and a bed, and one door. But this is an entire _house_ , and Svlad hasn’t been in a house in two years. Everything is _very_ distracting. 

“I know you’re trying. But you need to try harder.”

He drags his eyes away from the peeling painted flowers on a set of pots on the kitchen counter, to the man seated across him at the table. Riggins stares at him, as he always does, with unsettling intensity and an ever growing weariness. 

In truth Svlad isn’t trying _at all_ right now. With a rush of guilt, he looks down at the cards—but there's nothing to guide him; he’s operating on pure guesswork, and he knows that’s not the point.

Dithering, wanting to delay the inevitable disappointment, he follows a deeper groove in the wood with his index finger, relishing the unusual texture. “I thought this was supposed to be a holiday?” he ventures in a whisper.

Riggins sighs. “It’s a… retreat. An”—Svlad flinches before the word leaves his mouth—“experiment. We want to test your abilities in a different environment. I explained it to you.”

His handler, as he had heard him referred to—Svlad doesn’t know _what_ to call him, and Riggins has never called himself anything; he had introduced himself to a seven year old Svlad saying he was there to help, and hadn’t deviated from that since—seems to have infinite patience. But even when he loses it he doesn’t raise his voice, or hit him. And he explains everything, even if, all too often, Svlad doesn’t understand it. 

He's confused—the thousands of miles from England to Blackwing headquarters in the United States had made no difference in his… abilities, in _him_ , he can’t imagine why a few hours drive to this house would change anything. But Riggins knows best.

“Try again,” Riggins instructs, gentle, as always.

Svlad tries now—so hard—to settle his mind and reach inside the part of him that’s… different, and complete the exercise: match the cards, and find the right card—again, again, _again_. He can’t do it. He chooses wrong over and over, until Riggins sweeps the cards into a pile and puts an end to it.

“I only want to help you, kid. You know that.”

“I’m sorry,” Svlad chokes out, his voice breaking. He never feels as bad failing the tests as he does when Riggins conducts them.

“You’re tired, from the drive, aren’t you?” It sounds like a question, but doesn’t feel like one.

Riggins makes excuses for him, sometimes. And since Svlad gets things wrong _a lot,_ he will take the out every time. He nods in agreement, even though he’s not tired at all. In fact he wants to run, and run, and run and never stop.

“I should go get us some food. Why don’t you rest in the meantime?” Riggins tells him, standing up after gathering the scattered deck.

“Can’t I go? With you?” he blurts out. “Please?”

The briefcase locks closed with a loud clicking noise. Though Svlad couldn’t get a look inside, he knows it holds more testing instruments and tools. 

“Why?” Riggins counters, resting both hands on the shut briefcase while he studies Svlad, waiting for an answer.

Svlad doesn’t think it’s one of his… hunches. He just wants to go outside. “I was good at grocery shopping… before,” he says desperately. He remembers, vaguely: hooking his fingers in the grating of the cart, trotting alongside his mother—they were always in a hurry. “I helped mum pick the vegetables.”

Riggins' brow furrows, thick eyebrows obscuring his eyes, as always when Svlad says something about his life before Blackwing. “That’s not true, Svlad. You know it isn’t.” His voice remains gentle.

Svlad frowns at the table. Maybe he _is_ remembering wrong. He remembers the pinch on his wrist as his mother dragged him along; she would tell him to hurry up, don’t touch anything, don’t talk to anyone. ‘We can’t even go shopping without something happening, bog nam pomagaj,’ she would hiss.

“I can be good.” It’s almost a plea, quiet and forlorn. 

“I know you can.” Riggins studies him for another minute, before shaking his head. “You just need to keep trying.” 

He locks the front door behind him when he leaves for the store. He doesn’t need to tell him to stay put—Svlad has no idea where he would even go, and he knows Blackwing would find him wherever he did, and he would be punished.

Exploring what he can of the house is an exercise in curiosity, though he doesn’t have access to any room but the bathroom. One door had been locked when they arrived, and before leaving Riggins had locked the door leading to the garage and even the bedroom where he had set down their suitcase too—one suitcase for the both of them, because Svlad doesn’t own anything, and his clothes for the trip fit in with Riggins’ _civvies_ , as he called them.

The bathroom is not that dissimilar to the one in Blackwing, except there’s a _bathtub_ , which is exciting. He hasn’t had a bath since before Blackwing; he remembers his father used to fill up the bath too high and water spilled onto the floor every time. The last time he had prepared a bath for Svlad he had been mad, because he was covered in mud after wandering off at the park and falling into a ditch… where he had found a bloodied knife which turned out to be the murder weapon in a recent double homicide.

Svlad sits in the empty bath for a minute before growing restless and heading back to the kitchen, where he rummages through every drawer and cupboard—discovering cereal that had dried into a block and an expired bottle of mustard, and cataloguing the different utensils in the drawers, wondering at their purpose. Eventually, he gathers the courage to approach the windows. 

First he gets on his tiptoes to look through the small window of the back door in the kitchen, peering through worn curtains out into the back yard. As he can’t see more than grass and a fence, after a minute he moves on to the larger windows in the living room.

In Blackwing there are only walls, closing in on every side—the windows are all fake ones without a view: a dark mirror on his side, but see through on the other side, so they can watch him. These windows are _real._

Unable to figure out how to raise the blinds, he slips in between them and the glass to look outside to the street in front: several cars of different colors drive past, and two older kids on bikes. He presses his nose right up against the glass to make out the most of an orange cat lounging in a neighbouring lawn.

Svlad likes animals of all kinds. He had a pet dog once, he knows—he doesn’t remember him, but he remembers there were pictures of him as a toddler with a dog. He likes to think they were friends.

Feeling the tiniest whistle of wind through the window, he decides to open it. The latch is stuck and he hurts his fingers struggling with it, but he manages, letting in a breath of fresh air. The air tastes sterilized in Blackwing, smells of plastic and metal—it’s completely different out there. 

This is the closest Svlad has come to outside in years, as they had even taken the car to get to the house from an underground parking, and Riggins hadn’t rolled down the windows during the drive. His throat tightens as he fights back sudden tears. Still sniffling, he knuckles the sting from his eyes as a bee lands on the window sill—it’s _wonderfully_ vibrant, yellow and black, and alive, wings and antennae twitching. When he accidentally rattles the blinds, however, it flies off with a minute buzz, across the front yard to the street.

“Bye bye, bee,” Svlad sighs, waving at it despondently—right as a white van with a logo in green and bright vegetables painted on the side, goes by. He watches it swerve onto the curb right in front of the house, and trundle along for a moment, into the lawn opposite—a strident yowl causes his gut to clench. It’s the sound of an animal in pain—and he’s almost certain the orange blur that dashes down the street is the cat he had seen earlier. 

Then the van continues on, and the street falls silent. The stillness feels like a trap. His anxiety mounts with every second, until he wrenches himself away and slams the window shut, his breath coming in stuttering gasps.

Svlad’s instinct is to look for somewhere to hide—it’s foolish, he _knows_ he will be found, but it’s flight or fight and there’s no one to fight even if that came naturally to him. With the bedroom closed, and no room under the couch, he opts for squeezing himself into the cupboard under the sink in the kitchen. 

It’s a tight fit. Lightheaded from his uneven, rapid breathing, he holds tight onto his legs and lowers his forehead to his knees, trembling—remembering Priest’s laughter as he waved around a dead kitten by the scruff of its neck.

The thump on the counter above him makes his heart jump to his throat, so that he thinks he might be sick. _He’s_ here.

The path of the footsteps isn’t hard to follow, the sound different on the kitchen tile and the living room carpet. It’s a short circuit: to the window, stop at the bathroom, before returning. The cupboard doors next to where he is hiding creak on opening and closing—and then he is found.

“Icarus?”

It’s Riggins. 

Pressing back against the wall, Svlad squints against the sudden light. Although the cupboard is cramped and uncomfortable, he doesn’t want to get out. 

“Svlad?” Crouching in front of him, Riggins stares at him. “I told them not to send you to Priest…” he mutters, shaking his head. 

At the mention of Priest, he cannot help but shrink in on himself. He doesn’t correct Riggins that they hadn’t sent _him_ to Priest, they had sent Priest to _him_ —a nightmare come to life. 

Somewhere outside, a sound like a gunshot rings out and Svlad cowers. 

“That was a car backfiring,” Riggins informs him calmly, his gaze contemplative. After a moment, he heaves himself to his feet. “Are you going to stay there while I make us dinner?” he asks, already moving to dig into a bag of groceries on the table.

After a minute, he steels himself and climbs out of the cupboard. “Can I help?” he asks, eager for a distraction, to do something, to not… feel alone.

Riggins finishes pouring the uncooked pasta into a pot, then considers him. “Why don’t you set the table?” he answers at last.

It’s strange to eat on actual, ceramic plates instead of a tray, and with cutlery made of metal rather than plastic. Svlad sets out a fork and spoon as he is used to, although there are knives in the drawer, with sharp little dents that dig into the pad of his thumb. 

The fork feel heavy in his hand, and he’s a little clumsy at first, spearing macaronies slippery with red sauce that drips and stains his white shirt _orange_. 

“It’s so good, Mr Riggins!” he says honestly.

Riggins’ moustache twitches as he hands him a napkin. “Don’t eat too fast, or you’ll make yourself sick.”

Svlad exaggerates and slow down his chewing. “I won’t.”

Riggins snorts, then returns to his own meal and his newspaper.

Svlad tries to read it upside down, but he can’t read that well. When Riggins turns the page it’s all small text and numbers, and he can’t make out or understand _any_ of it, so he gives up. The faint sunlight filtering in through the blinds, which are lopsided, drawing his attention instead. He takes a deep, bracing breath—“Can I go outside?” he asks in a rush, words tripping over each other. “To the back yard. Please?”

Riggins takes a long moment—during which Svlad’s stomach twists itself into knots—to look up from the newspaper. “You’re not a prisoner, Icarus. Blackwing is only trying to keep you and everyone else safe.” 

Svlad bows his head, pulling at his fingers, hands in his lap. 

“You won’t get into any trouble in the yard, will you?”

His head snaps up. “No, no! I _promise_ , I won’t,” he stammers, round eyed. 

“We’ll need to run a stimuli test before bed,” Riggins warns.

The breath he hadn’t realised he was holding rushes out in a disappointed whoosh. Stimuli test are the _worst_ —they always leave him riled up and aching before bed. Still, he agrees immediately. 

“Alright.” It’s another five minutes before Riggins finishes his dinner, then stacks the plates in the sink and, pulling out a bunch of keys from his pocket, unlocks the back door. “Go ahead.”

Feet planted in the kitchen, hesitant, Svlad looks out at the _real_ sun, and _real_ grass, as the _real_ breeze rustles his hair. He’s nervous, almost wishing Riggins would walk out with him, maybe even hold his hand, like his father used to do when they crossed the street back in England. But Riggins stands with his hands deep in his pockets, and Svlad can’t even bring himself to look up at his face.

The grass is overgrown, and makes a rustling sound when he steps on it. It’s hot outside, he notices immediately—it’s never hot _or_ cold in Blackwing, but a constant moderate artificial temperature. 

Svlad cranes his neck to look up to the sky: a pale blue with a pink tint. Still looking up, he spins in place, so that all he can see is the expanse of sky and clouds, which blur as his eyes grow wet. When he stops spinning, he falls over, dizzy—but for once it feels good. 

Then there’s dirt in his hands, and grass, and even tiny little white flowers he couldn’t see from inside. The air smells fragrant, and real. It’s almost overwhelming, but it’s _wonderful._ An inexplicable laugh escapes him, even as tears spill over. 

It feels like no more than a few minutes before Riggins is calling him in.

Svlad looks up one last time and sees a plane high in the sky, blinking lights against a deeper blue now.

As he is about to step inside, he hears a voice from next door—not unlike his own, but with an American accent, arguing with an older, female voice.

“Icarus. Inside, now.” Riggins’ hand lands heavily on his shoulder. He steers him inside and closes the door behind them, plunging them into near darkness, as the blinds are down and the curtains drawn.

“Go wash up while I set everything up.” Riggins flips the switch right next to the door, flooding the room with light.  


Though his mind is on the sun and the fresh air and the voice he had heard—from another _child,_ he is certain—Svlad does well on the test. By the time they finish Svlad’s eyes are prickling with tears, as among the stimuli is pain—but Riggins is smiling.

“Well done, Icarus,” he tells him, warmth and pride in his voice. 

Even though he’s close to bursting into tears, Svlad offers him a shaky smile. He did good. All he ever wants is to do good. There is a part of him, however, that wonders whether if he gets it wrong again and again, there might be a chance he’s actually _normal_ , that it’s all some kind of misunderstanding. And maybe his parents would take him back, and he could go back to school and even make friends, and have a window in his room, and play outside for _hours._

But he’s not normal. Svlad sits still while Riggins takes his blood pressure and blood sugar, and makes some quick notes.

“This was a good idea,” Riggins murmurs, once in bed—more to himself than anything, Svlad thinks—before he starts snoring.

Riggins has taken the large bed in the middle of the room, and set up a cot for Svlad to the side up against the wall.

Svlad’s bed in Blackwing is in the middle of the room—in it he lies on his back, as still as possible, because he can’t stand the thought of facing the two-way mirror on one side or the door that locks only from the outside on the other. There are cameras in the ceiling, he knows, but once he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend no one can see him. 

He curls up on his side now, with his back to Riggins, and splays a hand on the wall in wonder—it’s _plaster_ , and he can even flake a bit off with his _fingernail_. Despite his mind running a mile a minute after all the excitement of the day, he falls asleep in no time at all. He wakes up in the middle of the night, however, from a nightmare.

Whimpering, he thinks he sees Priest, waiting in the shadows, as he does, a monster. But there is no one in the room besides Riggins, who has sat up, and is watching him, Svlad knows, though it’s too dark to make out his face. 

“What did you see?” he asks, voice rough from sleep. 

They keep track of this too, though Svlad’s _never_ had prophetic dreams. He shakes his head. “Nothing. I just… got scared.” 

“Priest again?” Riggins lies back down. “I’ll have a word. I don’t like his methods. You and me, we just need more time, don’t we, we’re making progress…” he continues, in a distracted tone. 

Svlad makes a small sound of assent automatically. 

“I left everything behind, to… understand. You’re the key, Project Icarus, I know that.” Riggins’ voice lowers into a drowsy mumble. “You’re too young to understand right now, but you will.” 

Svlad tastes the saltiness of tears, but doesn’t make a sound. He stares at the wall for a long time, touching it with his knees up against his chest, and only glances over his shoulder every once in a while to check that Priest isn’t actually in the corner, because he can _feel_ his eyes on him. 

With the blinds closed there’s no change in the light in the room as the night progresses. Riggins snores, until the alarm clock beeps, loud and shrill.


	2. Chapter 2

Svlad lets out a loud squeak when the fence rattles as something hits it from the other side, the back yard of the house next door. He looks up from his cereal box filled with dirt and bits of grass—he can’t bear to pick the flowers—to the fence, as a head pops up from behind it. 

The head belongs to a boy—a boy like _him_ , except his hair has less red in it than his own, and his cheeks are chubbier. “Hey, you!”

Bewildered, Svlad points a finger at his chest, casting a worried glance at the house where Riggins had settled on the couch for a nap after lunch.

“Yeah, you.” The boy must be standing on something to see over the fence, which is at least as tall as Riggins. “I heard you talking to yourself. What’s your name? D’you want to play?” he asks.

For a long moment Svlad can only stare at him. He hasn’t interacted with anyone but Riggins, some agents at Blackwing, and Project Moloch, in two years. It hits him in that moment that he has no idea how to play with this boy. 

The boy snaps his fingers. “Hello? Can you talk?” he demands. 

“Yes!” Svlad blurts out, tongue coming untied at last. Only to immediately shake his head. “No.” Swallowing hard he looks back at the house again. “I mean, yes, I can talk. But I’m… not supposed to, talk to strangers.”

“OK…” The boy shrugs. “Well, we can be friends, then we won’t be strangers. I’m Todd. My aunt lives here.”

 _Friends._ Svlad has to blink back tears. Then Todd asks ‘What’s your name?’ and he blanks out. “Icarus,” he whispers shamefully, before shaking himself—that’s _not_ his name. ‘Svlad’ is half formed in his mouth, when he realises this boy doesn’t know him. He can be _anyone_. “No! Wait!” he shouts, flapping his hands. “Um… Oliver! My name is Oliver.”

Todd stares at him with his eyebrows raised. “Alright. Oliver…” He snorts with laughter. “Good to meet you.”

It all feels kind of unreal, like a dream. “Are you a real boy?” he asks without thinking, his heart pounding in his chest.

Todd’s laughter is incredulous. “Yes, of course. Aren't you?”

Svlad cannot answer him—he doesn’t know for sure. 

Blaring, distorted music cuts into the silence. “What’s that?” 

Todd’s big blue eyes widen. “It’s the ice cream truck,” he replies, like he can’t believe Svlad doesn’t know. 

“Oh. Right.” The words spark a distant memory. He knows he liked ice cream, but he can’t quite remember what it tastes like. “Will it come here?” 

Todd nods. “We’d have to go out front.”

“OK,” Svlad agrees at once. It feels right, even if it means clambering up the fence using a bucket Todd throws over from his yard for a step ladder.

“Aren’t you going to check in with your mom or dad?” Todd asks, laughter in his voice, an eyebrow raised. 

“My—” he falters briefly. And then he lies without a second thought: ”There’s no one home.”

The issue settled they study each other for a minute. Riggins hadn’t packed him his Blackwing jumpsuit, but white polo shirts and dark trousers, and white velcro trainers. In contrast Todd is wearing a tee shirt with a bright, colourful design, blue jean shorts, and neon green shoelaces tied in a messy knot. 

“Oh, I like those!” Svlad loves bright colours—he misses them in Blackwing. “And your shirt. Who are those?” 

“Yeah, thanks.” Todd tugs at the bottom of his shirt, stretching it taut as he glances down at the design. “You don’t… You don’t know the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

“Teenage _Mutant_ Ninja _Turtles_?” he repeats with interest. “That sounds _fascinating._ ”

“Don’t you watch cartoons?” Todd asks him as he leads them through the kitchen and living room out to the sidewalk in front of his house. 

“No,” Svlad replies simply, not trusting his voice, his throat tight with emotion. It’s the world proper out here, without any walls or fences around him.

Todd gives him a strange look, but shrugs. “We can watch it sometime. It’s the best. So what ice cream are you getting?” He gives him a light push, which Svlad doesn’t understand, but he’s smiling—and not in that frightening way Priest does. No one else really smiles at Blackwing. 

Svlad finds himself smiling back. “I have no idea. Will you help me pick, Todd?”

“Sure.” The scuffed toe of Todd’s trainer nudges against his own. “Do you like chocolate or vanilla?”

Mouth twisted to the side, Svlad gives it some thought. He remembers having hot cocoa in the winter, and that was excellent. “I think so.”

Todd’s forehead wrinkles. “You mean you like both? There’s also strawberry and lemon, I guess.”

“I’ve had strawberry jello.” Riggins had brought him some when he had got sick after the lumbar puncture to take bone marrow sample. 

“That's not the same at all.” 

“Oh. Well. Which is _your_ favorite?”

“Chocolate and vanilla cookie crunch,” Todd answers promptly. “Those cost more, though. How much have you got?”

Svlad tilts his head to the side. “Hm?”

Todd’s face scrunches up. “Money. How much money have you got?”

“Money?” Svlad repeats in confusion, before it occurs to him that you’re supposed to pay for things, right. “Oh, I haven’t got _any._ ”

Todd groans, but when he looks at Svlad he seems more curious than mad. “You’re like Mindy—that’s my baby cousin. How old are you?” 

“Ten.”

“Same as me.” Todd makes a thoughtful noise. “When's your birthday?”

“Um.” Svlad hasn't had a birthday in a long time, and while he is certain on the age, he can't remember the exact day—some time in the spring, he thinks. 

“I have an idea. Wait here!” Todd exclaims and runs back into his house before Svlad can come up with an answer. 

Alone in the street the world seems huge, without anyone or anything to focus on. For a split second he considers what would happen if he just… started running. But he has no idea where he would go, when his family, if he could find them, don’t want him, and there’s nowhere Blackwing won’t find him—Priest has made that clear. 

Todd comes back out waving a wallet around right as the ice cream van reaches their street. 

“Todd?”

“You'll see, follow my lead,” he says vaguely, pouring out a handful of cash into his hand then pocketing the wallet.

The ice cream van is white and has pictures in pastel colors—Svlad loves it. The range of options is rather overwhelming, however, and it’s a relief to have Todd help him choose. 

Todd’s face falls as he starts counting out the money in his hand after the ice cream man tells them the total. “Oh no. I'm so sorry, Oli. I don't have enough for two. I thought I had enough in my piggy bank, but I was wrong.”

Thrown both by the nickname and his empathy over the pain of being wrong, Svlad awkwardly reaches out to pat his shoulder. “It’s alright, Todd—”

Todd gives his hand a quick squeeze, and does something confusing with his eyebrows in his direction before turning back to the ice cream vendor. “I’ll buy his then. It’s his birthday, you know.” He steps on Svlad’s toes when he opens his mouth to correct him, and turns wide, apologetic eyes to the ice cream man. “Sorry for the trouble, sir.”

The man looks from one to the other, squinting, then sighs. “Oh, alright. Just take them both. On the house.”

As they amble down the street after giving effusive thanks, Svlad turns to Todd. “Todd, I must tell you. It's _not_ my birthday today,” he confesses. 

Todd chuckles. “I know. But it got us a free ice cream!” He breaks into a wide grin, which Svlad hesitantly returns despite his confusion.

“Go on, try it. You have to eat it quick before it melts.” 

The ice cream—vanilla, strawberry, _and_ chocolate, with _sprinkles_ —tastes amazing, but he scrunches up his nose, slapping a palm against his forehead, at the stab of pain in his head. It hurts like the electric shock him after he gets something wrong during a test.

“Hey, you OK?” Todd clutches his arm. “Did you get a brain freeze? It goes away in a sec.”

“It does?” Svlad squints at him.

“Yeah. Just wait.” He keeps a loose grip on Svlad’s wrist as though to help him hold up his ice cream, or to stop him from eating it. “Don’t they have ice cream in England?”

“Yes.” Svlad takes a tentative lick after a moment. “But I don’t live there anymore.”

“Well, duh, you live here now, don’t you?” Todd laughs.

Eyes downcast, Svlad considers this. “I don’t know how long we’ll stay.” It’s only an experiment. Experiments run for a certain time, and then end.

“I’m only here for a bit too. Just for the summer.” Todd kicks at a bit of gravel. “We were supposed to go to Orlando, but we had to come here instead, because of the baby.”

“I am sorry you couldn’t go to Orlando.” Svlad has no idea where Orlando is, or why a baby should stop them going there. “But I’m glad you came here, Todd. I’m glad we’re friends,” he tells him earnestly, pushing past his timidness.

Cheeks bulging with ice cream, Todd regards him with an expression Svlad cannot read, before it clears and he breaks into a smile. “You’re kind of weird, you know,” he says. Svlad stiffens automatically, but then Todd continues, nudging their shoulders together: “But in a good way.”

Warmth blooms in his chest, and he can’t contain a bright grin. 

After a few minutes of wandering aimlessly while they finish their ice cream, kicking a pebble between the two of them, Todd asks: “Where are we going anyway?” 

“Just this way.” A moment after a quiet ‘oh’ escapes him when he catches sight of a lost cat flier tacked onto a lamp post.

“What is it?”

“I… I think I saw that cat, yesterday.” Inspecting the grainy picture on the poster more closely isn’t much help, as he hadn’t got a good look at the cat the day before. Still, it feels right. Thinking of the pained sound it had made makes his stomach hurt though.

“Do you know where it is? Is there a reward?” Todd asks eagerly. “Maybe we can find it. We could have ice cream even when it’s not your birthday,” he adds, with a sidelong look and a quick grin, knocking elbows as he steps around him to rip off the flier.

Svlad’s reaction is a little delayed—he isn’t used to so much touching and smiling, but Todd is still grinning when Svlad finally chuckles. 

They set out without much of a plan but with every intention of finding the lost cat—or at least Todd does, under the impression Svlad has an idea where to find the it. Svlad didn’t _lie_ , but he didn’t make much of an effort to dissuade him of the notion either. 

Pushing to the back of his mind concern over how Todd might react when he can’t deliver, he lets himself enjoy the moment with his new friend. 

His fingers are sticky from the ice cream that had dripped on him, and the sun is beating down on him, burning across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and the strip of exposed skin on the back of his neck, yet he’s the happiest he’s been in a _very_ long time. 

Naturally, everything straight away falls apart.

Todd stops dead when they turn into a short street, where a group of five boys who appear to be around their same age huddle in a circle—playing a game, Svlad guesses. All are wearing bright, coloured clothes like Todd, and one has a red cap over his mess of dark curls. 

Everyone in Blackwing blends in: cold and monochrome—except for Priest, who is black like charcoal and burns everything he touches. This riot of colour and vividness has Svlad almost vibrating. On a high, he waves, grinning wide, when the boy in the red cap looks up, catching his eye.

Rather than wave back or offer any form of greeting, he elbows the boy closest to him, his mouth moving fast as the rest lean in to listen. The next instant all five have zeroed in on him and Todd—their expressions seeming far from welcoming.

Head tilted to the side in confusion and concern, Svlad lets his hand drop. It’s not that he is unused to a hostile reaction, but he hasn’t _done_ anything… yet—has he? 

He startles when Todd grabs his wrist. “Let’s—”

A thickset brunet in a tie-dye shirt jumps to his feet with a shout. “Brotzman! I’m going to knock your teeth out!”

“Shit.”

“And your friend!” Another boy calls out.

“ _Shit!_ ” Todd repeats, and pulls at Svlad. “Run!”

Svlad has a scheduled exercise routine at Blacwing—it does _not_ prepare him for running down the streets chased by a group of boys shouting after them and threatening violence.

“Going to turn you inside out until I find it, you cheater, Brotzman!”

With a burst of speed Todd overtakes him. 

“What do they _wan_ t?” Svlad calls after him.

But he doesn’t answer, turning the corner onto a new street so sharply in attempting to follow Svlad’s new shoes skid on loose gravel and he trips and falls, scraping both his knees and the palms of his hands. 

Jeers ring out behind him, and ahead the slap of Todd’s trainers on the asphalt as he keeps running—for a few seconds, before he stops. He looks up the street, his body seeming to pull him forward, then back at Svlad as he pushes himself to his feet, wincing. With an exasperated groan, Todd dashes back to him. Taking his hand, he pulls him upright and forward. “Come on!”

Svlad holds on tight, but after a minute running tugs him in another direction, cutting right across a lawn and through a narrow corridor between two garages.

“Wh—?”

“I’ve got a good feeling, trust me!” 

Svlad gives an emphatic nod of approval when Todd pushes a waste bin to block the path behind them. A couple of wooden crates stacked precariously one on top of the other get them over a fence, into an overgrown backyard with a small garden shed in a corner. 

When Svlad tries the door, it opens, and they slip inside.

Their panting seems extra loud as they catch their breath, leaning against the wall beside the door, side by side, shoulders pressed together.

Soon the sound of their pursuers catching up can be heard outside—thumps and stomping feet and confused, annoyed shouting. After a minute these grow distant, however—  
“They’re gone. We lost them,” Todd breathes, slumping in relief.

Only then does Svlad become aware they’re still holding hands. 

Todd must as well because he lets go of Svlad’s hand in an abrupt movement and steps away, sticking his hand deep in his pocket. “How did you know we could get away this way?” he asks curiously. 

“I didn’t,” Svlad replies quickly, his mouth dry. “It was just… lucky.” He bends at the waist to inspect the stinging grazes on his knees as well as to avoid Todd’s eyes. “Why were those ruffians after you?” 

“Ruffians?” Todd echoes with a laugh. But the next moment his shoulders come up to his ears, and Svlad abandons his explanation that he’d read the word in a fairy tale book once upon a time. “Um. I… won these trading cards from one of them? A couple days ago. And now they… aren’t happy, I guess.”

“One of them called you a cheater,” Svlad muses, straightening.

Todd bristles. “Yeah, well, I’m not. He’s just a sore loser.”

“Oh.” Svlad blinks at him, unsure how to respond to Todd’s unexpected anger. “Alright.”

“They’re bullies,” he snaps, kicking the door open, letting in more light. The vague forms inside the shed are revealed to be crates, packed full of—“Potatoes?” Svlad mutters under his breath, losing track of the conversation for a split second. Regaining focus, he nods in wholehearted agreement, though Todd has his back to him, then clears his throat. “Thanks for… helping me up, when I fell.”

Todd makes an impatient sound in his throat, but turns to face Svlad again, his lips quirking. “I wasn’t going to just leave you there.”

“I thought you were… really brave,” he says shyly.

“No…” Todd rubs the back of his neck. “You think so?” he asks, between eager and doubtful.

“Yeah.” Biting his bottom lip, he contemplates the bloody scrapes on his palms. “How do you do it?”

“Huh? Do what?”

“Be brave?” he whispers. He doesn’t feel brave a lot. “I get scared.”

Todd’s forehead creases. “You can be brave and still be scared.” 

“You _can_?”

“Yeah,” he answers simply. “Like when you go to the dentist.”

“Oh. Right.” Svlad doesn’t actually mind the dentist—Dr Coleman always shows him the X-rays of his mouth, which are cool and so interesting, and does funny accents to make him giggle. 

Todd gives him a long look, still holding onto the door handle. “What makes _you_ scared?” he asks slowly.

Svlad toes at the dust on the floor, staining his white sneakers, avoiding Todd’s probing eyes. He can’t explain how he is scared of being wrong, wrong, _wrong_ —not only of failing the tests and the punishment that follows, but terrified that there is something wrong with _him_ , that _he_ is fundamentally wrong. The blank faced scientists and guards at Blackwing scare him. Priest scares him. “Monsters.” The word escapes him in a quivering exhalation.

“Monsters? Like monsters under the bed?”

The line between Todd’s eyebrows deepens at his nod, before it smooths out after a few seconds. “If there were monsters under my bed I’d be scared too,” he says finally. 

Svlad cannot contain a tremulous smile, even if he can’t find any words. 

“Hey! Who’s there?” 

They freeze at the shout. Frenzied confusion—on whether to leave the shed and run, or attempt to find a place to hide, or come out and surrender—ensues, with a lot of fluttering hands from Svlad, and furious whispering from Todd.

“What are you doing in there?” 

An old man approaches from the house, scowling.

“Can we be scared _now_?” Svlad asks in a high pitched whisper.

“He can’t do anything. We’re just kids,” he replies, which makes little sense to Svlad—but, squaring his shoulders, Todd reveals himself to the man, ignoring Svlad’s emphatic gesticulations to _not._ “Sorry, we were just…”

“Looking for a lost cat!” Svlad blurts out, coming up behind Todd. “We thought we saw it… come in here.”

The man stares them down. “You saw Pumpkin?”

“Pumpkin?”

“My cat. I’ve been looking for her. I put up fliers.”

Todd digs out the crumpled flier from his pocket, with the name of the cat as well as the man’s—Ed—printed on it. “This is your cat?” His shoulders shaking with a repressed giggle, he glances conspiratorially at Svlad. “What a coincidence.”

Svlad deflates, and can’t quite muster a smile. “Yeah. What a coincidence,” he agrees tonelessly. How many times has he heard those words? He can’t escape it, no matter where he goes or what he does.

“Well? Did you see Pumpkin or not?” Ed demands. 

“Oliver did, yesterday.”

“Uh. I _think_ —maybe?” he stammers.

Ed hums, low and sceptical. “How did you get in here anyway?”

“Couple of boxes in the trash,” Todd explains, surprisingly insouciant.

“Hm.” He looks from one to the other through narrowed eyes. “You’d best make yourselves useful in any case, and help me carry a couple of cases into the house—will you?” A crooked smile softens his features. “I’ll let you out the front door.”

Svlad allows himself a breath of laughter, while Todd chuckles. 

Straining under the weight of potatoes, they follow Ed to the house, to cram the crates on an overcrowded kitchen. 

“Are you a… _potato_ farmer, by any chance?” Svlad can’t resist asking, taking in the spread and the heap of burlap sacks with a somehow familiar logo printed on them.

The corners of Ed’s mouth twitch. “Something like that.”

“We’ll call if we find your cat,” Todd assures him, as he shepherds them through the living room toward the front door.

“You do that, but hold it on the trespassing—” 

Urgent knocking interrupts him. Eyes darting to him and Todd, Ed hesitates before answering the door.

“Ed, man—” A younger man stands at the door, in a bright green cap and white shirt with a green logo—the same one as on the van behind him, and as on the potato sacks, Svlad registers, before he notices the cat in his arms. “I don’t know how it happened, it was—What are the odds, right? It’s rotten luck.”

His face devoid of color, Ed stares at the motionless, strangely stiff cat. “Aaron, what—That’s Pumpkin.”

Aaron edges inside, cringing. “Yeah. I… hit her with the van, yesterday afternoon. I got distracted—a damn bee, and some kid—” His gaze falls on Svlad, and he falters, gaping. “ _That_ kid—”

Ed doesn’t acknowledge this, however. “You hit _Pumpkin_?”

Aaron’s attention snaps back to Ed. “I almost crashed—I didn’t see her!” 

Catching Svlad’s eye, Todd gestures with his head toward the door, but Svlad is stuck in place, reeling—he had disturbed the bee and he had distracted Aaron as he was driving, and it was _all his fault_. “Oh no,” he moans miserably.

“And this was yesterday? Did you say yesterday?” Color has returned to Ed’s face, which has flushed red with anger.

As he stalks forward, Aaron skirts around the couch, moving toward the kitchen to keep his distance. “I wasn’t sure—I mean, I… I’m here now, man. I thought maybe you’d want to… bury her? I’ll help.”

“You’ll help me _bury_ her after you _killed_ her?” 

“When you put it like that…”

“Oliver!” It takes Svlad a moment to realise that refers to him. Todd sounds like he’s called his name more than once. “We should go,” he whispers urgently.

Svlad nods distractedly. Part of him thinks he should confess—it’s his fault that Pumpkin is dead, that now these two friends are fighting.

“Come on—” Todd takes hold of his wrist and pulls—just as a loud crash makes them both jump.

The source of the crash reveals itself at Ed’s feet: the drawer he had pulled straight out of the chest of drawers, so that its contents are strewn several feet around him—a notepad and a roll of tape, batteries and pens and bullets. A small box bursting open on impact propels a small, jangling ball forward, until, hitting a coffee table leg, it changes direction and rolls toward Svlad.

“Ed, what the hell, man!” Cowering behind the crates of potatoes, Aaron holds both hands up, Pumpkin still swinging from one, while Ed points a gun at him.

“Shit!” Todd gasps, and tugs at Svlad’s wrist again to get him moving. 

The gun shot rings out before he can take two steps. 

Aaron swears, and a potato goes flying through the living room, bouncing off Ed’s paunch onto the floor. “Ed, don’t do this! What about _Papa’s Papas and Other Vegetables_?” He holds the cat’s body in front of him like a shield, its limbs flopping. 

Ed’s left eye twitches, and he fires again. 

Pumpkin is not a large cat and the bullet flies over her head, straight into Aaron’s—a hole blooms in the middle of his forehead. Eyes still wide open, he keels over backwards, knocking over a chair and falling heavily on the kitchen floor.

Svlad isn’t aware he screamed until Ed’s attention shifts back to him and Todd.

“He killed my cat! Can you believe it?” he tells them, shaking his head, waving the gun around. After a glance at the kitchen, where the growing pool of blood is visible between the table and chair legs, he turns a speculative eye on them. “You kids interested in earning an extra buck?”

Todd shakes his head slowly. “We should… probably head home. Don’t want to be late for dinner and get in trouble.”

“Sorry.” Svlad picks up the metallic ball at his feet in an unthinking, desperate attempt to be helpful, and holds it out to him. The metal feels hot to the touch, and he fancies he can feel a contained vibration, a thrum like the buzz of a bee.

He hears Todd hiss his name, but it’s too late to back out, as Ed fumbles with the gun, instinctively reaching to take the ball. 

Once holding it in his hand, his eyebrows twitch in fleeting confusion before his eyes widen in horror. He snaps his head around to the open box on the floor, then back to his hand, where the ball has started glowing, the indecipherable designs on it shining white hot. 

Svlad gags at the familiar stench of burning flesh. The skin of his own palm is red and hot.

His eyes bulging, Ed opens his mouth, a strangled, inarticulate noise erupts. 

“Todd!” Svlad cries out, his voice shrill. “Todd—!”

It’s like the prelude to an explosion, as the ball goes silent and the glow steadies—for a second, before it bursts outward in a crackle of heat and electricity.

Todd pulls him behind the couch, a hand fisted in his shirt. Svlad’s elbow takes the brunt of the rug burn, and his knees sting fiercely when he gets on them to peek over the couch.

Eyes rolled back in his head, groaning, Ed jerks—once, twice—then crumples, gun clattering to the floor.

“Is he… dead?” Todd asks in an undertone.

Svlad swallows thickly, fighting back nausea. He approaches with cautious steps, heart somewhere in his throat. Up close he can see Ed’s chest rising and falling. “He’s alive.”

“Whoa.” Todd shakes himself and runs over to the kitchen phone. “We need to call 911.” When he steps around the pool of blood, he shudders. “He’s… he’s definitely dead, shit.”

“This is all my fault.” Svlad sinks to his knees next to Ed, shaking, breath hitching. “Why does this always happen?” This is why his parents gave him away; this is why he’s kept at Blackwing, and why Priest does what he does, because _he’s_ not the monster—Svlad _is_. People only get hurt around him, _die_ around him. “And the poor cat too.” No one is safe. 

He jumps when Todd touches his shoulder. “Oliver.”

Svlad’s stomach hurts, and his chest hurts, and his hand hurts, and even though he knows he deserves it, he’s terrified, because he’s in trouble, _again,_ and they’re going to send Priest and it’s going to be _awful_. And Todd might get in trouble with his parents too. “I’m so sorry, Todd.”

“What? What for?”

Svlad shakes his head, incapable of speech. 

“Um.” After a moment, Todd crouches next to him. “Hey, um, look… you know the card I… won from Greg? It’s worth, like, 150 points in Turtle Power.”

Svlad stares at him through the blur of tears, uncomprehending.

“OK. Just… it glows in the dark, right?” he continues. “If you stop crying, I’ll give it you, OK? And it will… it’ll protect you from the monsters under your bed. You just need to… stop crying.”

Svlad still doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t understand why Todd would give him anything, but the one thing that filters through is that Todd wants him to stop crying. 

He doesn’t quite manage, because when does Svlad _ever_ get anything right? But he grows quieter, and Todd makes approving noises and pats his back. He keeps his hand on Svlad’s shoulder, watching him, while Svlad watches Ed’s chest rise and fall until the police and the ambulance arrive. 

The police come, and talk at them. Ed is taken away in an ambulance, an oxygen mask over his face. They never see the other man, Aaron, removed from the house. 

Someone drapes a blanket over Svlad’s shoulders at one point, before they get shepherded into a police car, but it’s Todd holding onto his wrist the whole time that really keeps him grounded. 

The drive to the station is a blur of street lights that burn through his eyelids even with his eyes closed. The rush of fear is gone, replaced by numbness, which remains even when he and Todd are separated. A police woman leads Svlad to a room and leaves him—alone, between four walls once again. 

It’s not his first time dealing with the police, but it’s one of his worse experiences. When the questions start, all his answers only lead to more questions—starting with his name, and his legal guardian, and his date of birth. ‘Suspicious is the word,’ the detective repeats… ’Not normal. _Wrong._ ’ 

It hurts, but Svlad is cried out. And the detective, for all that he’s intimidating and cold, has got nothing on Priest. He’s just a man, doing his job, not a monster. Like Priest. Like Svlad.

Riggins comes to get him, after a couple of hours. He doesn’t say a word to him, not when he walks into the room, or leads him to the car with a firm hand on his shoulder, or during the drive back to the house.

Once at the house, he doesn’t need to say anything for Svlad to sit across him at the kitchen table.

Riggins studies him in silence for a long time. 

“Did he…?” Svlad breaks the silence at last. “The potato farmer?”

Eyebrows knitted, Riggins gives him an unreadable look, before shaking his head. “He died on the way to the hospital.”

Svlad digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “What happened?” 

“You tell me.” 

“I… I didn’t mean to—The cat was… my fault. And then… I just handed that… thing, to him,” he rambles, voice shaking. “I didn’t know.”

“What happened with the cat?”

He has no choice but to explain: how he waved at the bee, and distracted Aaron, who ran over the cat, and then he led him and Todd to Ed’s house, and picked up the _thing_ that killed him.

After he’s done talking Riggins says nothing for a whole minute, staring at him. “There were drugs in the potatoes.”

Svlad chokes. “What?”

“The FBI have been after them for a while, but every time they got close, something went wrong with the bust operation—inexplicably.”

“You think he was like… us? Like me?”

Riggins rubs his chin. “No. He might have been using some… device. Something… supernatural.”

“Like that… _thing_ , that killed him?”

“It’s possible.”

Svlad keeps his eyes downcast as he scratches at the peeling, sensitive skin of his palm. “I killed him,” he whispers. “It was my fault.” 

“He was hurting people. He did this to himself.” Riggins makes an aborted movement to reach for him, but ends up folding his hands on the table instead. “You… you have a higher purpose, Icarus.” He sighs when Svlad’s eyes fill with tears. “It’s been a long day. Let’s go to bed.”

“No tests?” Svlad sniffles.

“I’ve seen enough. I need to think.”

His stomach growling, he curls up in bed, abrasions burning after Riggins cleaned them. Despite his exhaustion he stays awake for a long time, thinking about Todd, and the two men who had died that evening. When he finally falls asleep it’s to silence rather than Riggins’ snoring.

Next morning, he wakes to Riggins already dressed, packing the few clothes they had brought with them, which he had put in the closet. 

“We’re leaving?” he asks, voice rough from sleep.

Riggins nods, and points with his chin at the clothes laid out on the bed. “I made a mistake, thinking you could roam free, letting you out of the facility. You’re not ready. You’re a danger to yourself and to others.”

Svlad swallows convulsively, feeling sick, then forces himself to take a deep breath and swings his legs over the side of the bed, wiping at his eyes. “Can I say goodbye?” he asks.

“To whom?”

“My friend?” he replies in a tiny voice.

“Friend? That boy next door?”

“Todd,” he whispers. “Todd Brotzman,” he pronounces carefully.

“Icarus,” Riggins sighs, zipping up the suitcase. “He’s not your friend. He didn’t even know your name; he called you Oliver.”

“I… I told him that was my name.” 

Riggins ignores him. and continues talking. “You know he told the officers the only reason he was with you was because he was bored.”

Svlad looks down to his hands, clasped between his knees. 

“You can’t have friends, Icarus. Not as you are now. I told you, you’re not ready.” He’s forced to look up when Riggins walks over to him, crouching in front of him. “But if you work with me, we can figure it out—figure _you_ out.”

“And then I can… have friends, and go outside?” he asks, voice breaking. 

Getting to his feet again, Riggins rests a hand on top of his head, and ruffles his hair. “I promise. Now let’s go home.”

With a shuddering exhalation, Svlad nods. 

Home. Four walls and fluorescent lights, and more tests, every day—and Priest. 

In the car he twists around for a last look at Todd’s house and the street. Through the tinted glass it looks remote, unreal. 

Svlad falls asleep on the way to Blackwing, and wakes up in his bed, in the middle of the room, on his side, facing the see through mirror.

He can feel him in the corner of the room—Priest isn’t there now, but he will come, in the night, Svlad knows. He wonders about the card Todd had mentioned, that would protect him from the monsters. He’s old enough to know that wouldn’t work, but he still wishes it did.

Swallowing back tears, he turns onto his back and squeezes his eyes shut.

**Author's Note:**

> "When I was small. Riggins used to take me in to see [Project Moloch]. And a few of the others he said weren't too dangerous."  
> \- Thinking of this quote from S2:E1 led to thinking what _else_ might Riggins not have done?  
> And... I don't know, I just really wanted a fic with Dirk and Todd as kids.
> 
> Hopefully someone out there might enjoy this?  
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated! Thank you for reading!
> 
> [Tumblr post.](https://aminorupgrade.tumblr.com/post/628351842624192512/po-tay-to-po-tah-to-summary-during-a-rare)


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